


Cornered

by katikat



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katikat/pseuds/katikat
Summary: Mac hates guns. He hates them with passion. But…  (Unbeta'd)





	Cornered

They stumble through the corridors, left and right and then left again, and Mac can’t help but feel like a rat in a maze or like a sheep being herded. There are doors on both sides, but they’re locked, all of them, and there’s no time to try and unlock them because Mac can hear the stomping footsteps behind them, getting closer and closer.

“We’re almost there, Jack,” Mac whispers, hoisting Jack a little higher. He has Jack’s arm thrown across his shoulders, he’s propping his friend up, dragging him along, but he can feel Jack faltering, getting heavier…  _bleeding_ heavier.

It was an ambush and they got separated from the rest of the team, almost half an hour ago, and before the radio cut out, he could hear Cage telling them that a chopper was on its way to pick them up, all they had to do was get outside, out of this labyrinthine building that used to be a hospital at one point but now served as a terrorist headquarters - which nobody told them when they sent them in! Damn faulty intel!

Mac rounds another corner, pulling Jack after him - but then he stops short and his eyes widen in shock. Because there, at the end of this short hallway, there should’ve been a door leading  _outside_ , to safety. On Riley’s plans, there  _was_ a door there - but now it’s gone, it’s been walled over! The hallway’s blind… and the hostiles are getting closer by the second!

Jack’s knees give out and he sags, groaning in pain. Mac looks down at him and he sees that Jack’s barely conscious; his chest wound’s still pumping blood at an alarming rate, despite the crude bandage that Mac scrambled together one floor and many corridors back.

Gently, Mac lowers Jack to the floor, propping him up against the wall. Jack’s chin drops to his chest exhaustedly; his face’s now almost grey, bloodless, his lips nearly white. And Mac’s scared, he’s terrified that Jack will actually die on him, that this time Mac won’t be able to whip out some mad genius solution and get them out of this mess - because Jack’s really bad off and there’s nothing, not a damn thing around that would help them get through the wall or through their enemies.

Through the men who’re almost upon them, Mac can hear their shouts clearly now, and though he doesn’t understand this particular regional dialect, their excitement is unmistakable: they know they have their prey cornered.

Mac drops his eyes to Jack’s gun. It’s holstered because there’re no bullets left in it; Jack used up the whole magazine trying to get them out before he caught one in the chest, right through the vest, tackling Mac to the ground and saving his life. But if there  _were_ bullets in the gun, if they  _had_ ammo…

Mac would use it. He realizes that with a startling clarity. Despite his deep-seated hatred of guns, he would shoot every hostile in sight if that meant saving Jack’s life! Because Jack  _will_ die here if Mac doesn’t do something. He  _needs_ to do something. He  _has_ to…

Slowly, Mac reaches for Jack’s large combat knife. It’s stuck in the holster on Jack’s other hip, glued in place with Jack’s blood that’s drenched both of their desert camo. Yanking at it sharply, Mac frees the knife and stares at it for a moment. He knows what to do, he went through the training like any other soldier, but…

Jack groans a little and shifts, grimacing with pain. He tries to lift his head but he doesn’t have any strength left. “M-c?” he mumbles and his eyes flicker open and then closed again.

Mac squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “I’m here, Jack,” he whispers. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. You just rest, alright?”

As if that was all the reassurance that Jack needed, he goes limp, losing consciousness altogether. And they’re running out of time because their enemies reached the last corridor leading up to their little cul-de-sac.

Leaving Jack slumped on the floor at the back of the hallway, Mac gets up and moves over to the corner on silent feet. There he presses his back against the wall, knife in hand, and closes his eyes, breathing in and out, in and out deeply to calm down. He knows what he has to do and he won’t hesitate. He mustn’t. Jack’s life depends on it.

And then, just as the first of the hostiles reaches the bend in the corridor, Mac snaps forward and around and rams the knife hilt deep into the man’s throat, stopping him in mid-step. Before the man can do more than wheeze in pain, Mac grabs the semi-automatic from his hands and rolls into the hallway, past the now dead man sinking to the floor - and starts firing.

* * *

When he finally gets out, carrying Jack over his shoulder through one of the side-doors with still more enemies at his heels - he slams the door shut and with a sharp kick, he breaks off the door handle, buying them a few precious seconds - the green military chopper’s circling overhead, waiting as promised, with Cage sitting in its open door with her legs dangling dangerously over the edge, ready to help if needed.

And she does. The moment the chopper touches the ground, Cage jumps out and runs towards them, covering them with her heavy automatic - she’s bruised and bloodied herself, her hair’s disheveled, her camo torn, but there’s a fierce look on her face, clearly telling Mac that she’s not leaving here without them.

Together, they climb into the chopper, Mac pushing Jack’s limp body and Cage pulling, and as soon as they’re all inside, Cage yells, “Go, go, go,” at the pilot who doesn’t need any more encouragement, considering the hail of bullets pinging against the hull. In a matter of seconds, they’re up in the air and hightailing it out of there, leaving the terrorist headquarters behind.

Mac rests against the wall for a second, closing his eyes, then he grabs the large first aid kit and crawls over to Jack to pack his wound with a clean dressing; he will  _not_ let him die now that they made it to safety. He will  _not_ let Jack die. He  _won’t_ –

“Mac…” he hears Cage say in a shocked voice that’s almost lost in the engine’s roar and when he glances up, he sees her staring at him, wide-eyed.

Only then does he look down, at himself - and startles. He’s  _drenched_ with blood. His clothes, every piece of his uncovered skin, even his boots… he looks as if he bathed in it.  _When…? How…?_

Cage reaches out for him but Mac jerks away, focusing back on Jack again - on Jack, not on what happened, he does  _not_ think about that, about all those men, now dead,  _not about that, not about that, not about that_ , even though he can still smell gunpowder, feel the hard metal of guns, hear the staccato of shots…  _Jack, think of Jack, focus on him._

“Mac,” Cage tries again.

But he just shakes his head. “It’s not mine,” he shouts to be heard over the  _whoop-whoop-whoop_  of the chopper. “None of it, none of it is mine.” And he has to blink hard because suddenly, he can’t really see well, his eyes are swimming. He adds in a whisper, “It’s not mine…”

Cage doesn’t respond, she doesn’t try to touch him again, she just sits there, on the other side of Jack. Mac can feel her eyes on him but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t. He won’t.

He  _does_ \- but only after he tears open the pristine white bandage with his teeth and presses it against Jack’s wound hard. Only then he looks up and he finds Cage staring at him with compassion and sympathy… and  _understanding_. She knows. Somehow, she knows what he did. What he had to do.

And then, without a word, Cage scoots closer and gently, she pushes his hands away, she trades places him, pressing her own hands against Jack’s wound to slow down his bleeding. And Mac, Mac lets her. Because he trusts her, with his life and Jack’s, too. And because he  _can’t_ anymore. He’s spent,  _empty_. He has nothing more to give.

He curls up against the wall, and pulling his legs to his chest, he loops his arms loosely around them and rests his forehead against his knees. It’s now out of his hands, it’s up to others to save Jack. There’s nothing more that he can do. 

He closes his eyes.

The chopper flies on.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Just Bad Luck](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12769416).


End file.
